


Back Into the Woods

by freckledandspectacled



Series: Nygmobblepot Week 2018 [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, First Kiss, Gentle Stabbing, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-06 06:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14050563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckledandspectacled/pseuds/freckledandspectacled
Summary: Written for Nygmobblepot WeekDay Three: Hurt/Comfort





	Back Into the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> Your basic Amnesia trope.

Oswald wakes under bright lights, a handsome man in a lab coat and glasses hovering next to the bed. He smiles tentatively at Oswald, ducking his head and then linking his hands behind his back.

“Welcome back,” he says, from where Oswald does not know. Oswald looks him up and down, squinting. He’s seen this man before, in grey lab coat, not white.

“I know you,” he says, the memory coming back to him clearer. The man gasps and brings a hand to his mouth, and for a moment Oswald think he’s going to burst into tears. He rushes the bed and envelopes Oswald in a hug. Oswald does not hug back, startled by the familiarity this man is showing, the dampness soaking into shoulder.

“I was so worried you wouldn’t remember,” the man says, fingers digging into Oswald’s back. He’s warm, and for the moment that’s enough to distract Oswald from realizing he’s probably missing something. “Not everyone who undergoes the procedure regains their memories.”

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Oswald says, gently dislodging the man from his person. “I recognize you, from the GCPD, but… that’s all.” The man’s face falls, and tears start to well in his eyes.

“You know me,” he insists, taking Oswald’s hands into his own. “Oswald, please, you _know_ me.”

“I’m sorry,” Oswald says, removing his hands from the man’s grasp. “I don’t.”

“Edward,” he says, like that means anything. “Edward Nygma.”

“Listen, friend—” Oswald begins. The man shakes his head, then pushes his glasses up his nose with a finger.

“Don’t do that, we _are_ friends. Were. What’s the last thing you remember?” Edward asks, eyes flicking desperately over Oswald’s face.  

“I remember being shot…” Edward smiles, and he wonders why that would be a good thing.

“Great, that’s great. Now think before that,” Edward encourages.

“I was… I was trying to get to Galavan!” Oswald gasps, attempting to sit up. Edward rushes forward, presses his shoulders back into the bed. The smell of Edward’s hair is familiar, but he can’t place from where. It makes him more complacent for reasons he doesn’t understand, and he allows Edward to touch him.

“Please don’t try to get up. You were… you were very badly hurt,” Edward pleads, taking his hands off Oswald’s shoulders.

“How did you know me?” Oswald asks, wondering how he’d made a friend of this… fine young man.

“After you were shot, I saved your life. Later on, you saved mine, and we—” Edward laughs. “You ran for Mayor, you know. And you won. Here, I’ve got your campaign poster on my phone.” Edward flips it open, and sure enough, there he is. Surprisingly orange, but definitely him. And he’s Edward’s lockscreen. Odd.

“Am I still the Mayor?” Oswald asks.

“Yes,” Edward says, “I’m your chief of staff.”

“I thought you worked for the GCPD,” Oswald asks.

“Not anymore, I— you saved me from Arkham Asylum, Oswald,” Edward says.

“You don’t seem insane,” Oswald points out. Edward smiles.

“Looks can be deceiving. You also went to Arkham. The good news is, it was for killing Galavan. Well, the first time, at least.”

“The first time I went to Arkham?” Oswald asks.

“Um, no. The first time you killed him. It’s a long story,” Edward amends.

“If it’s a long story, we must be old friends,” Oswald says.

“You’re my best friend, Oswald,” Edward says. He seems sad. Oswald supposes he would be too, if he had a best friend who could not remember him. “Well, the good news is, we can go home. You don’t need to recover here.”

“Home?” Oswald asks.

“I don’t want to overwhelm you with information,” Edward says. “Suffice to say you… happened upon some good fortune.”

“I’m sorry… you said ‘we’,” Oswald asks.

“Well, we—um. We live together,” Edward says. “That is, I moved in with you after you leveraged me out of Arkham.”

“I see,” Oswald says. Edward flushes.

“It’s not like that,” Edward clarifies. “I mean, that is to say—never mind. We’ll talk about it later.” He stands abruptly and goes to the door.

“I’ll be back with a wheelchair.” Oswald waits. He wants to get up, but Edward had advised him to lie back. It’s odd, but he does trust him. And he thinks they might be a little closer than Edward is currently letting on. Another strange facet of his current situation is that this does not appear to be a hospital. Well, he is a criminal… A criminal who is currently mayor. Why isn’t he in a hospital? Edward wheels in a moment later and helps him out of the bed. He grips Edward’s arm, sees him wince.

“Sorry,” Oswald says, ripping his hand away. Edward settles him into the chair and takes his hand.

“You’ve got quite the grip. Squeeze my hand?” Oswald does, very gently. “Can you do it harder?”

Oswald obeys, tightening his grip moderately. Edward winces again, and he lets go.

“Was that as hard as you’re able?” Edward asks, shaking his hand out.

“No,” Oswald says. “I was trying not to hurt you.” Edward’s eyes widen, scanning over him.

“Strange did mention enhanced strength, but I didn’t think— it doesn’t matter,” Edward mutters to himself. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Strange?” Oswald asks, letting Edward wheel him through the door.

“We both hate him,” Edward says, “but I forced him to help me save your life.”

“Thanks for that,” Oswald says.

“Please don’t thank me,” Edward murmurs. Oswald’s can’t see him, but he sounds _miserable_. He’ll ask about it later. It seems this ordeal has been more draining for Edward than himself, but he has no idea why.

***

The night before, Edward had wheeled him into a bedroom and helped him into bed. Oswald had thought nothing of it when Edward assisted him with his clothing, and afterwards he was astonished he’d let him. It was almost like muscle memory. He’d slept like a log, waking around ten in the morning. He isn’t sure whether Edward would want him to stay in bed or try to get into the chair himself, so he calls him. Edwards bursts into the room, a nervous expression on his face as he looks around.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, hesitantly stepping further into the room.

“I wasn’t sure if I should be staying in bed; I’d like some breakfast, though,” he says, wondering what has Edward so panicked. Perhaps they have enemies still. Or perhaps there was something Edward was afraid he’d uncover.

“I’ll help you,” Edward says, coming around to the side of the bed where Oswald’s wheelchair is waiting.

“Do I really need that?” Oswald asks distastefully. Edward pauses.

“Well, you do seem to be a lot… stronger than previously anticipated. Let me see the wound.” Oswald hesitates.

“Where’s the wound?” he asks. Edward pauses.

“Come to think of it…” he begins, “I didn’t notice it last night. It’s your stomach.” Oswald lifts his shirt, and sure enough, a fresh pink wound is there. But it’s perfectly healed. Edward gasps.

“How long ago was I shot?” Oswald asks.

“Three days ago,” Edward says, fingers hovering toward his stomach as if in a trance. They brush gently over the wound, as if checking to see that it’s really there. “He actually did it. You’re… you’re just _fine_.”

“That’s amazing… why exactly do we hate this man again?” Oswald asks. Edward frowns.

“Well, I’m not too worried about you reopening the wound, then,” Edward says, ignoring the question. “Let’s get you up.” Oswald allows Edward to help him to his feet. He’s steady on them, and so he pushes Edward’s hold away, striding across the length of the room and then back. When he turns, Edward has a look of utter shock.

“What is it?” Oswald asks, freezing in place.

“Your leg,” Edward whispers. Oswald realizes at once what Edward has noticed. He isn’t limping. And his leg is completely devoid of pain. He smiles widely, testing his weight on it.

“It’s better,” he says, absolute wonder coloring his tone. “But… how?”

“I don’t know,” Edward says. “I didn’t ask him to do that… come, sit down. Let me take a look.” Oswald sits on the bed, surprised when Edward takes a seat as well. He pats his thigh, gesturing for Oswald to lift his leg for him to examine. Oswald turns and rests his calf in Edward’s lap. Edward pushes up the leg of his pajama pants past his knee. He carefully takes hold of Oswald’s ankle, feeling along the bones.

“It doesn’t hurt at all when I do this?” he asks, checking Oswald’s expression for signs of pain.

“No, not at all,” Oswald says, unused to having another person’s hands on him like this. What did it say about their familiarity, that Edward assumed Oswald would allow it? Something about their relationship just doesn’t make sense. Edward feels his way up Oswald’s leg, to just above his knee. His expression is pure concentration, and Oswald finds himself a little enamored with the line between his brows…

He huffs in frustration. Why didn’t he remember this man? He feels like Edward is a prize he doesn’t remember earning. No one apart from his mother has treated Oswald the way he does. It’s _confusing_ him.

“Everything is… perfectly fine. It appears whatever regeneration process you went through has… repaired all of your injuries. I’m… not sure how.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “It’s fascinating.”

“Will it last forever?” Oswald asked, “The… regeneration.”

“I don’t know… I also didn’t think you’d have such a marked increase in strength,” Edward says. “Perhaps I should perform some tests—”

“No,” Oswald interrupts. “I’m not a Guinea pig.” Edward smiles fondly at him.

“No, you’d make a terrible one anyhow.” Edward stands. “I’ll make us some breakfast.” Oswald is once again struck by the familiarity. Edward leaves before he can tell him what he might like, but no matter. He has a feeling Edward already knows.

Oswald finds a bathroom and showers, picking a fine suit from the closet. Everything in his size, and it’s baffling to think that all this is really his. If Edward _was_ lying, it was an elaborate and expensive lie. He also would have needed to collect a great deal of information on Oswald to make it convincing. Somehow, Oswald thinks he’s smart enough to pull it off. He’s not sure whether or not he’s cruel enough, though. Now dressed, he leaves to find the kitchen. Edward exits a room with a tray of food and smiles upon seeing him.

“You’re just in time, the dining room is through here.” Oswald follows him, finding a large table in an open space. It’s ornate. There are portraits on the walls, a lamp covered in peacock feathers, and a beautiful, twinkling chandelier. Edward sets out the plates, and Oswald is floored when he notices his selection. A boiled egg, cold cuts, a bowl of what must be körözött, peppers and tomatoes, bacon, and toast. Edward also puts some kind of strudel on the table, no doubt to be split between them when they’re finished. It is by no means a traditional American breakfast.

“Do you always eat this?” Oswald asks. Edward pauses in his laying of the cutlery, then continues.

“I do now. I suppose I’ve gotten used to taking breakfast with you.” Oswald sits down at the table and shoves a tomato in his mouth. He needs a moment to process this.

What does he know? He lives with Edward. Well, Edward lives with him. Edward also works for him. They eat together. Edward _cooks_ for him. Edward touches him and assumes it’s alright—

Edward had said it wasn’t like that though. That they’re best friends. Edward is also entirely out of his league. Oh god, is he Edward’s _sugar daddy_? No. Edward is much too classy for that. He’d had a job, well, before Arkham. Arkham. Which Oswald had taken him out of and into his home and given him new employment— No. Who is he kidding. He’s still the same man, and it would be uncharacteristic of him to have that sort of arrangement with someone. He puts more food in his mouth. He needs more time to think.

***

Oswald explores the house, and in a corner, he is startled to find a statue in his mother’s likeness. Her death is a fresh wound, helped only by the knowledge Edward had imparted to him that he’s already disposed of Galavan. Twice. He circles, looking for a date of creation, or a note of some kind. He finds one, in his own handwriting. It’s not what he expected.

_Mother,_

_I know it’s customary for us to converse, but I have a secret to impart to you. A secret that will not remain so for long, but nevertheless must be kept so for now. I write to you because I do not wish for Edward to overhear so soon that I’m in love with him. I know you would approve, and I know what you would say to me. Tonight, I am going to confess to him. I can only hope he feels the same. Wish me luck._

_Your loving son,_

_Oswald._

Oswald reads it three times. A fourth. A fifth. He tucks it back into place and leaves to confront Edward. He finds Edward in his room, making the bed. Oh, he’d forgotten to do it this morning.

“Edward?” he calls, coming up behind him. Edward gasps and pivots, nearly colliding with Oswald and then falling back, startled by his proximity. Oswald grabs him around the waist and steadies him.

“Sorry,” Edward says, hands braced on Oswald’s chest. “I was just—”

“It’s alright,” Oswald says, smiling genially.

“Ahem,” Edward says, looking down between them. Oswald looks as well, making a sheepish expression and then disentangling them, stepping away.

“Sorry,” he says, and now it’s Edward’s turn to smile warmly.

“It’s alright,” he echoes.

“I have a question for you,” Oswald beings.

“Shoot,” Edward says, still grinning at him.

“Well, more of a statement, I suppose.” He takes a breath. “I fell in love with you.”

Edward’s expression shatters.

“You did,” he confirms uneasily. “But, Oswald, you don’t even remember any of that—”

“Yet I can easily see it happening again.” He takes a bold step back into Edward’s space, puts a hand back on his waist. Edward doesn’t move away.

“It’s not the same—"

“We _were_ together, then,” Oswald interrupts. Edward must have been lying before.

“No, we weren’t,” Edward affirms, “I told you, it’s… complicated.” Evidently. But how so? Oswald had loved him, but they weren’t together, which must mean—

“Then I was in love with you, and you didn’t feel the same?” Oswald concludes. Edward sighs.

“That’s the simplest explanation, but it’s not entirely accurate either.” Edward ducks his head, and then holds his gaze. “Oswald… I didn’t get the chance to tell you before. I think I owe it to you to tell you now. I do… love you.”

It’s all he needed to hear. Oswald puts a hand on the nape of his neck, pulling him down into a kiss. Edward turns his cheek.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “It’s more complicated than you know.”

“Maybe I don’t care to know,” Oswald argues. Edward is smart, sweet, and in love with him. Maybe Oswald doesn’t remember loving him back, but he doesn’t think it will take very long at all. He’s already smitten. He doubts his feelings were unfounded before, certainly not if he’d gone to confess to his mother. No, Oswald had loved him, and something like that was forever. 

“You would,” Edward says, deadly serious. He gently pushes Oswald away. “I’m sorry, I need to go.” Edward flees the room without an explanation, leaving Oswald in the position of having to find one.

***

It doesn’t take him long to solve the mystery of how he was injured. He calls some of his sources. They’re under the presumption that he’s dead. Barbara Kean, Jim’s old flame, is apparently in change of the underworld. Word is that it was an inside job. He digs deeper, gets a line to the queen herself. With one sentence, she explains everything.

“You’re alive? Ed _shot_ you.” He hangs up.

Sweet Edward. Deceitful Edward. He was betrayed by him, killed by him. Why had Edward brought him back? Well, it was shockingly simple, in light of what he’d said.

He wanted to torment him.

Shooting Oswald had clearly not been enough for the little sadist. No, Edward must have realized that. He’d saved his life so he could kill him more slowly, make the hurt deeper.

Make him think Edward loved him back, and then show him how wrong he was.

It’s genius, he admits. Too bad for Edward, he’d underestimated his quarry, as so many had. He’d play along, only long enough for him to turn the tables on Edward and end him.

***

“Edward?” he calls, knocking on the doorway of the study. It’s about three in the afternoon, and it won’t be dark for a few more hours.

“Come in,” Edward says, glancing up at him.

“Look,” Oswald says, “I’m sorry about all of the awkwardness earlier. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” Edward looks up at that.

“You didn’t,” he says. “I just need a little time to think about all this.” To think about how he’d keep Oswald’s paws off him long enough to torment and kill him, surely.

“I was wondering if you’d like to take a walk with me,” Oswald said. “I’ll pack some sandwiches. We can… you can tell me a little bit about what we were like. Or something else, if that’s not to your liking.”

“I’d like that,” Edward says.

“Great. I’ll let you get changed into something a little more suitable for hiking and pack us something to eat.” Oswald leaves him. He’s not sure how he’d gotten the idea to lure Edward into the woods for a picnic. It had just seemed… right. He could easily leave Edward’s body there, let someone stumble upon it, or let the coyotes have at it. No matter.

Edward emerges in a brown coat and boots, looking over Oswald’s preparations. Cucumber sandwiches and a trail mix of nuts and dried berries. Oswald packs it into a small bag and pulls the strap over his shoulder. He’s also changed into something a little more suitable for his task. Black boots, and a long black coat. Harder to see blood stains.

They head out, and Oswald makes pleasant small talk with him to lower any suspicions. They chat about poisons and the GCPD, and eventually Edward halts in a clearing.

“Why don’t we stop here?” he asks. “I’m a little hungry.” They’re not far enough for Oswald’s tastes. Not yet.

“There’s a stream a little way on,” Oswald lies. “I was hoping we could stop there.” Edward smiles and nods in acquiescence, and they continue on. Oswald gives it another five minutes.

“You know,” he says, laughing to himself. “I think we’re lost.” Edward turns, watching Oswald hit himself in the forehead to sell it. His eyes narrow.

“You’re lying,” he says. Point blank. No doubt at all in his inflection. Oswald is surprised at his perceptiveness, fake smile immediately falling from his face.

“Yes, I am.” Edward’s expression goes from wary to terrified, and he freezes. In a few strides Oswald grabs his wrist, twisting it behind his back and pining Edward to a tree. He removes the knife he’d stolen from the kitchen, pulling it from inside his coat. Edward is breathing loudly, rapidly, but he doesn’t fight the hold Oswald has on him.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” Oswald hisses into his ear, shoving his arm further up his back. Edward cries out in pain. “That I wouldn’t realize your latest ploy to torment me?”

“What are you talking about?” Edward gasps. “I wasn’t honest with you, but I was going to tell you! What ploy, Oswald?”

“Pretending you love me,” Oswald grits out, twisting his wrist. Edward screams, but there’s no one around to hear it. “Do you think I’m a fool?”

“ _No_ ,” Edward gasps. “Oswald, I’m not lying. I love you—”

“Shut up!” Oswald screams. “I thought it was too good to be true. You’re handsome, smart, sweet… and in love with _me_? I was suspicious, yes, but you were so _sincere_.” Edward sobs, and he raises the knife to his throat, silencing him.

“You put on a good show, I’ll give you that,” Oswald says. “I believed every lie. If I hadn’t learned that you were the one who shot me, I never would have caught on to your little deception.”

“I can explain,” Edward pleads. He presses the knife deeper, a line of red beading across Edward’s neck. It’s fetching on him.

“Don’t bother. I know what you were planning. Shooting me was too quick, hmm? You had killer’s remorse. You should have made it _longer_ , made me _suffer_ , _destroyed_ me.”

“I did all of that and more already. I swear to you, Oswald. _I love you_. You have to believe me,” Edward begs, and he does it so pretty, too. A shame. 

“Why?” Oswald asks. “Why should I believe you? I don’t _know_ you. You lied to me. You _shot_ me.” Edward flounders, mouth opening, then closing. He shuts his eyes, turns his forehead into the bark of the tree.

“You’re making a mistake,” he says, defeated. Oswald smiles. He lets go of Edward’s arm.

“Turn around.” Edward obeys, turning his back to the tree. Oswald is surprised at the lack of fight in him. He’d expected more from the man who’d apparently bested him. Stepping close, he presses the knife to Edward’s belly.

“I think I’ll give you one to match,” he explains. “And then I’ll finish this little feud for good.”

“You’ll regret this,” Edward tells him. He seems… resigned. “I know I did.”

“Pretty words,” Oswald says. “Let’s see if you stick to your story with my knife in your guts.” He steps forward, let’s the momentum carry the blade forward and into Edward’s flesh. He gasps, eyes widening, watching Oswald. Oswald pulls the blade free, ready to watch him fall apart now that he knows he’s going to die out here, alone and unloved. Ready to watch him beg forgiveness, just like they all do.

“I love you,” Edward says, hands clasped over the wound, red seeping between his fingers. “I forgive you.” He leans back against the tree, bares his neck. Oswald is frozen in place.

“Well?” Edward asks. “What are you waiting for?”

“Why aren’t you fighting back?” Oswald asks. Edward lowers his chin, eyes blazing with a determination Oswald can’t place.

“How else am I supposed to prove it to you?” Edward asks. “There are no words I can use to convince you when you think I’m a liar. Kill me or don’t, but it won’t change the fact that I love you, Oswald.” Oswald’s eyes desperately flick over his face, trying to spot a tell, a glimmer of insincerity, _anything_. He hasn’t tried to run, isn’t begging to be spared or recanting his confession. If Edward is lying, he is willing to die telling it. Oswald knows that a dying man will say anything to save his own skin, but Edward isn’t even _trying_. 

“Oh no,” he whispers. “You’re _serious_.”

“Deadly,” Edward smiles, slipping down the tree. Oswald catches him, pulls him up.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” Oswald says, panic beginning to set in. He’d just stabbed a man who loves him out of some kind of _backwards_ paranoia. What was he thinking?

“Don’t bother,” Edward says, hands on Oswald’s shoulders to steady himself. “I won’t make the walk back. Physical activity increases heart rate; I’ll just bleed out faster.”

“Unzip your jacket,” Oswald commands, shrugging his own off. Edward obeys, taking his hands away from the wound. Oswald sees he’s wearing a sweater underneath, and folds his jacket into a square. He pulls Edward’s sweater up, ignoring his shocked gasp. He’s not wearing a shirt underneath, which simplifies things. Oswald presses his jacket firmly over the wound, still bleeding heavily, and looks up at Edward.

“Hold it there,” he instructs, and Edward’s hands move to comply. Oswald takes his away, adding on, “Keep it tight.”

“Oswald, this is really bad. I don’t think—” Oswald scoops him up into a bridal carry, smirking at the loud yelp Edward gives as he’s interrupted. 

“You won’t be walking,” Oswald says. “You’re going to be fine.”

“You—” Edward begins, cutting himself off. “Okay, this might actually work.”

“It will,” Oswald says, unwavering. 

“I’ve still been stabbed,” Edward points out. “I _could_ die.”

“You won’t,” Oswald assures him. “I survived the bullet you put in me; it’s only fair.”

“You didn’t,” Edward whispers. Oswald stumbles, adjusting his grip on Edward and carrying on. 

“What do you mean?” Oswald asks. 

“I mean that you died, Oswald. Remember Fish Mooney?” he asks. Though he’s confused as to the relevancy, he nods.

“I do.”

“Strange brought her back to life, that’s how I knew he could save you,” Edward explains.

“Is she still alive?” Oswald asks, unsure how he feels about this information. Fish was certainly a potential challenge to his power. 

“No, Jim Gordon killed her. You were allied at the time,” Edward says, resting his head on Oswald’s shoulder.

“You’re telling me I managed to corrupt Jim Gordon?” Oswald asks, smirking satisfactorily to himself. 

“I meant that you were allied with Fish,” Edward corrects. “Sorry, I should have been more specific. It’s… becoming harder to focus. And no, you didn’t corrupt him, he’s doing that all on his own.” Edward’s voice is positively dripping with venom. Oswald wishes he knew the origin of that resentment. He supposes he’ll have time to ask Edward all about it, once they’re out of the woods. Literally and metaphorically.  

Edward goes quiet, relaxing further into Oswald’s hold. It makes him a little harder to carry, and Oswald’s newfound strength seems to be waning. He doesn’t know how much farther it is, and the sun is setting on them. 

“Ed?” Oswald says, jostling him a little. Edward stirs, humming softly. “You need to stay awake.”

“That’s a little more difficult than usual,” Edward says. He sounds exhausted. Oswald isn’t sure why he makes his next request. He isn’t sure why he _knows_ that Edward will comply. He asks anyways. 

“Sing to me.” Edward smiles softly. 

“I know you’ll know this one,” Edward tells him. “ _The fire has gone out, wet snow from above, but nothing will warm me more, than my, my mother’s love. I light another candle, dry the tears from my face_ —I’m sorry, I don’t… I don’t remember the rest right now.” Oswald sniffs and looks up, a vain attempt to keep from crying. 

“ _Nothing can protect me more than my mother’s warm embrace. The path ahead is dark, so dark I cannot see, but I will not fear_ —” Oswald goes on, finishing the phrase. 

“’ _Cause my mother looks over me_ ,” they sing in unison, completing the song together.

“You have a beautiful voice,” Oswald tells him. 

“So do you,” Edward says, fitting his forehead into the crook of Oswald’s neck. “You should sing to me more often.”

“Do I normally sing to you?” Oswald asks, curious. Edward is silent for several moments, and Oswald wonders if he’s fallen asleep. 

“No, you don’t,” Edward says, He sounds quite… _forlorn._ When this is over, Oswald will sing to him as often as he’d like, if it will keep him from sounding like that. 

“Ed?” Oswald calls after another minute. Edward’s silence is troubling. His continued silence even more so. “Ed!”

“What?” Edward murmurs.

“You need to stay with me,” Oswald says. “Remember?”

“‘M not going anywhere,” Edward tells him, adjusting his grip on Oswald’s jacket. Oswald wishes he had worn a lighter color jacket; he can’t tell how much blood has seeped into it. Edward’s hands had already been stained red, but were they darker now?

“Don’t fall asleep,” Oswald demands, as if his expectations alone can keep the other man awake. 

“It’s cold,” Edward says. Beneath the blood on his hands, they appear bone white in color. Oswald tries to hurry, but the light is fading, and he doesn’t want to trip and drop Edward. 

“We’re almost there,” Oswald tells him, but in truth he has no idea. The darker it gets, the more he begins to panic. He conceals it, not wanting to upset Edward. Finally, _finally_ , they reach the beginning of the manor’s lawn. Oswald’s arms are beginning to burn, back straining from bearing Edward’s weight. The sight of the manor has never been more welcoming, this home he barely knows. They make it to the back door, and Oswald carefully sets Edward’s feet on the ground. He pulls the door open for him, ushering him inside and into the nearest chair. In the light of the house, he can see how pale Edward’s face has become. He looks like a ghost.  

“Wait here,” Oswald says. He runs, actually _runs_ for the first time since the blow Fish Mooney dealt to his leg. Oswald reaches the linen closet, grabbing the first aid kit stashed there and a towel. He races back to Edward, who is—thankfully—still upright and conscious. Oswald kneels in front of him and lays the kit on the ground, peeling the jacket away. Edward’s stomach is completely red with blood; the hem of his pants soaked with it. Oswald throws the jacket elsewhere, taping gauze over the wound. It occurs to him that he’s never been on this side of things. Generally, he creates the stab wounds. He doesn’t try to heal them. 

Almost as soon as he’s finished, the gauze is soaked through with blood. He presses the towel over it. Edward is growing weaker, and he isn’t sure how much pressure Edward will be able to keep on the wound during the trip to the hospital. He’ll just have to drive fast. Oswald remembers that Edward keeps the keys in a bowl by the door, having watched him put them there yesterday. 

“I’ll drive you to the emergency room at Gotham General,” Oswald says, “Keep pressure on it.” Edward takes over, and Oswald heads to the front door, grabbing the keys and leaving it open for them. The car is still parked in front, close as can be. He heads back to Edward and leverages him out of the chair, pulling Edward’s left arm over his shoulder and wrapping his other around Edward’s waist. He gets Edward out of the door and into the car, opening it for him and buckling his seatbelt so Edward doesn’t have to take his hands off of the wound.

Oswald gets into the driver’s side and starts the car, peeling out of the estate and onto the back roads. It will be at least fifteen minutes to the emergency room, but Edward hadn’t been hit in an artery, Oswald assured himself. He’d be fine. 

“How are you feeling?” Oswald asked, knowing he needed to keep Edward focused. 

“Tired,” Edward mumbled. Oswald turned on the radio, a fast jazz beat coming over the speakers. Edward had left it on this station last night. 

“Tell me about… something,” Oswald said, struggling to gather his mind together. A very large part of him was panicking, seeing Edward like this. It was more than the fact that Edward loved him and he’d stabbed him. It was that, apparently, he’d once truly loved Edward in return. Why couldn’t they ever seem to get the timing right?

“I can’t think of anything,” Edward said. Well, that wasn’t good. Edward had been quite an interesting conversational partner, the few times they’d chatted. 

“Did you know that male emperor penguins keep their eggs warm by balancing them on their feet?” Oswald asks. He isn’t sure why, where the words had come from or how he knew them. But they’d been at the tip of his tongue, and so he’d spoken them. 

“I told you that the first time we met,” Edward sighs. “You should remember that.” He does, faintly, but he wonders why it’s stuck. It wasn’t like him to remember details about people he deemed unimportant, and he’d certainly thought Edward was just that at the time. 

“I do now,” he says. “You’re a little mixed up in my head. I only remember that meeting, and everything after Strange.” Edward doesn’t reply. 

“Ed?” he calls. “Ed!” Oswald reaches over, shakes him. No response. He grabs Edward’s wrist, finds a weak pulse. There’s still a chance. He presses harder on the gas. 

***

Oswald screeches into the emergency room, still laying on the horn as he had weaving through traffic. He ignores the valet asking for his keys and goes around the side of the car, opening the door and scooping Edward up easily. Marching through the automatic doors, he goes straight for the receptionists.

“We need a doctor _now_ , he’s been stabbed.” One of the women jumps out of her seat. 

“Mr. Mayor? Um, follow me through here.” They bypass the people waiting, headed through the doors of the ICU. She leads him to a rolling bed, pressing on her headset. “I need a surgeon now, stab wound to the abdomen.”

“Lay him down here,” she tells Oswald, indicating the bed. Oswald complies, laying Edward on the bed. They’re swarmed by various medical professionals a moment later, and they wheel Edward down the hall and through a set of doors he’s told he cannot follow through. The receptionist lays a hand on his shoulder. “He’s in good hands. Come with me, you should wash up.”

Oswald looks down at his hands, caked in Edward’s dried blood. In some places it’s still wet and deeply red in color. He trails after her into the waiting room and to a bathroom, where he’s left alone with his thoughts and the stains on his hands and clothing. He washes the blood from his hands and can’t quite manage a few spots where it’s under his nails. Oswald doesn’t bother, finding a seat in the waiting room and settling in. He’s desperate enough that he’s on his fifth magazine when Jim Gordon accosts him. 

“You’ve been missing for days,” he says, sparing any introductions. 

“Hello to you too, old friend,” Oswald says, making his ire known as the greeting is given through gritted teeth. 

“The whole city has been on the lookout for you, where have you been?” Jim demands. Oswald knows it isn’t out of concern for his safety. No, the public and the media had probably been pressing the GCPD over its inability to find the missing mayor. They were all _so_ incompetent. 

“For your information, an attempt was made on my life. Edward saved me, and he’s currently in surgery for a knife wound he received to the abdomen in the process,” Oswald lies. 

“Do you know who was responsible?” Jim asks. The public perception of the GCPD relies on their ability to find the perpetrator. Oswald smiles. 

“Not a clue.” Jim frowns, and Oswald stands. He takes Jim’s hand and crushes it in his grip, harder than he’d dared to squeeze Ed’s hand. Jim grimaces and tried to pull his hand from Oswald’s but cannot. Oh, Oswald is enjoying this. He wrenches Jim’s arm toward him, tugging him close. Jim stumbles forward, and he whispers into his ear, “Good luck finding your culprit.” 

Finally, he releases Jim’s hand. Jim glares, turning and shaking his hand out as he walks away. Oswald smiles and makes to sit down. 

“Mayor Cobblepot? I’m Mr. Nygma’s surgeon—”

“Is he alright?” Oswald asks, relieved to finally be talking to someone of importance. It’s been eleven hours since he brought Edward in, and the sun has started to rise again. 

“We expect a full recovery,” she says. “I’m Doctor Juarez.” Oswald shakes her hand, trying not to crush it as he’s overcome by happiness.

“Pleased to meet you. Can I see him?” Oswald asks, wondering when he’d started to care so much about a man he’s really only known for two days. 

“He’s been asking for you, follow me.” Oswald trails after her through the halls, feeling small between the white walls. Edward holds a power over him he hadn’t anticipated, a power he doesn’t understand. Dr. Juarez opens a door for Oswald, gesturing him inside. 

Edward is in a hospital bed. The gown he wears draws Oswald’s attention to how slender he is, something he hadn’t noticed beneath the suit jackets and overcoats. His glasses are off, head lolling to the side. His brown hair sticks up comically in some places, curling in others. 

Oswald is glad he’s alive. He never thought he’d say that about anyone he acquainted with his knife.

“Ed?” He stirs, eyes blinking open and bleary. When they focus on him, Edward’s whole face lights up. __

“ _Oswald_ ,” he says, delighted to see the man who landed him in this hospital bed. A wide smile spans his face, white teeth a near match for the pale skin of his face beneath the sickly hospital lights. 

“How are you feeling?” Oswald asks, approaching the bed. 

“Good,” Edward says, “ _Really_ good. Thay have me on all _kinds_ of drugs. _Good_ drugs. Hospital drugs.”

“That’s… good,” Oswald says, wincing at his own inarticulateness. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Edward says, reaching a hand out and beckoning him closer. “I was worried you’d be all guilty or something and run away. Not want to see me.”

“I’ve been waiting a while to see you,” Oswald said. “I was worried.”

“About little old me?” Edward asks, touching a hand to his chest. “Come closer, I can’t see you.” Oswald approaches with caution, startled when Edward seizes his wrist.

“Oh,” Edward says, pulling his hand closer and examining it. “You are real. I wasn’t sure.”

“I’m here,” Oswald assures him. Edward holds his hand and brings it to his chest, smiling up at him. 

“I’m on a lot of drugs, you can’t be too careful,” Edward says, possibly attempting to wink but just blinking both eyes. Oswald chuckles at him, squeezing his hand to further assure Edward of his presence.

“You’re in a good mood for someone who’s been stabbed,” Oswald jokes. Edward’s face darkens. He seems very serious all of a sudden. 

“If the only way to prove to you that I truly loved you was to let you kill me… that seemed fair enough. I mean, I did it first.” Oswald shakes his head.

“It was certainly effective. But I have to wonder… why did you do it in the first place?” Edward’s eyes shut, and he sighs, placing his other hand over Oswald’s as well and then blinking his eyes open. 

“Retribution. You killed the woman I loved.” Oswald’s jaw drops. Edward had forgiven him… after _that_?

“Why did you have Strange bring me back?” It just didn’t make sense. It couldn’t possibly be _love_ , as Edward had claimed. He’d put on a good act thus far, but Oswald knows that some things just aren’t forgivable.

“I killed you. Justice was served,” Edward shrugs awkwardly, still clutching Oswald’s hand to his chest like a lifeline. “And afterwards…. there was no reason you had to _stay_ dead.”

Oswald feels strange. Good strange. Warm. It does not last long. In the time it takes for him to contemplate another question, his leg suddenly gives out from under him. His hand is wrenched from Edward’s, and he hits the ground hard. It takes him a moment to register that he’s screaming, clutching his leg like he had when Fish Mooney had first inflicted the injury there. 

“Oswald?” he doesn’t notice Edward until he’s next to him, assessing Oswald’s body for injury. His face is panicked, but he can’t be as panicked as Oswald feels. Edward stands abruptly, grabbing his IV stand and stumbling over his own feet into the hall, screaming for a doctor. The pain overwhelms Oswald, and everything goes black. 

***

He wakes in the hospital bed next to Edward, still wearing his clothes. Good, there couldn’t be anything too wrong with him if he hadn’t ended up under the knife. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Edward titters, smiling at him. He swings his bare legs over the side of the bed, gown pulling up above his thighs. Oswald sits up as Edward walks the short distance between their beds, sitting on the edge of Oswald’s. 

“The drugs Strange used to bring you back were unstable. You just went through the process of destabilizing,” Edward explains. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that would happen.”

“What did he do to me?” Oswald asks. His whole body aches, like all the hurts from carrying Edward were finally catching up to him. His back is _killing_ him. 

“He uses a more stable version of a drug called _Viper_. Usually, he integrates the DNA of his subjects with that of other species to stabilize it, but it hasn’t worked so far. He had to reevaluate Fish Mooney after her resurrection, and she was his most successful experiment.” Edward sighs. “I refused to let him alter your genetic structure. His second trial with Mooney made that step unnecessary. Unfortunately, it appears that was not… entirely true.”

“So… what just happened?” Oswald asks. 

“Viper destabilized. I imagine you no longer possess the same strength as before. Strange surgically repaired the wound to your abdomen before the procedure, so that held, but your other injuries…” Edward trails off. “Well, Viper was what restored them. And now that it’s deteriorated—”

“I’m crippled again,” Oswald states. He knows Ed will beat around the bush forever if he lets him. Edward winces. “And I’m _alive_. I would call that an improvement.”

“I’m sorry,” Edward says. “I led you to believe that your leg was permanently repaired—”

“Without your intervention, I wouldn’t even be here,” Oswald says, taking Edward’s hand. Edward had held his earlier, he thinks he’s allowed. 

“You also wouldn’t have been shot in the first place,” Edward points out. Oswald shakes his head, smiling. 

“Wow, you really must be high. I seem to recall you saving my life on other occasions as well.” Edward’s eyes widen. 

“You _recall_ recall, or you recall me telling you that?” Oswald smiles. Edward hadn’t even cared about the insult in light of this development, how _telling_.

“Both.”

“ _Oswald_.” Edward throws himself into Oswald’s arms, holding him tightly. “You remember everything?”

“I don’t know about _everything_ ,” Oswald says. “But I remember _you_.” Edward coughs, pulling away. There’s a deep blush across his cheeks. 

“Viper must have… reset your mind in the same way it did your leg. And when it degenerated—”

“My memories regenerated?” Oswald finishes. Edward smiles.

“Precisely. Well, not precisely. They didn’t really go anywhere, viper just worked to suppress them the way it suppresses pain and reverses injury. Your memories were never really gone, they were just being repressed. In essence, Strange’s altered version of Viper turned back the clock not only on your body, but your _mind_ as well.” Edward looks like a kid at the candy store. “Fascinating. _Fascinating_.”

“Yes, well, as happy as I am to be the test subject of a mad scientist…” Oswald trails off. Edward’s face falls, realizing his faux pas.

“Right, sorry, I’m just—I’m so glad you’re really back.”

“It’s good to be back,” Oswald whispers, pulling Edward into another hug. The memories flow as easily as the affection between them. 

_Edward, face aglow from the light of a fire he does not see, swathed in a soft golden robe. His smile is probably warmer, anyways._

_Edward, pale like a corpse, gasping and coming to life under his hands, clutching at Oswald’s wrist, the lapel of his suit. Oswald never wants to feel fear like this again, the spectre of loss like ice in his heart._

_Edward, in black and white stripes, a paper penguin cleverly pinched between long, thin fingers._

_Edward, hair mussed, dirt on his face. He half-carries half-drags Oswald through a dark forest, struggling with his weight but assuring him he’ll be alright through panted breaths…_

“Oswald?” He breaks from his reverie and is immediately ensnared by Edward’s gaze. Edward tilts his head, eyes flickering between Oswald’s lips and his mouth. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that I want to kiss you,” Oswald says, moving so his lips are a breath away from Edward’s. Edward’s eyes flutter closed. 

“Then kiss me.” He leans in, the meeting of their lips like static electricity in his stomach, the heat of Edward’s mouth suffusing him. Edward puts a hand on his face, tilts him a little bit this way and somehow makes the kiss even better. Oswald cups his cheek in turn, traces the shell of Edward’s ear with his thumb.

_Edward, a vision in white, a bouquet of lilies held to his chest. He’s flushed and smiling shyly, offering Oswald his hand. Oswald takes it and lays a kiss over a band on his ring finger._

Edward pulls away, eyes still shut. Oswald runs a thumb over his cheek, wants to urge them open. He cups Edward’s face in both hands and kisses him again, and then again. Edward’s eyes hesitantly blink open, jumping over Oswald’s features, cataloguing. 

“I love you,” Oswald whispers into the space between them.

“I love you too,” Edward says, folding himself into Oswald’s arms in an embrace. Oswald strokes his fingers over Edward back, hating the feeling of the thin gown, the reminder of Edward’s hurt. The injury he did to him. Edward should only ever be clothed in fine things, like—Oswald stops himself. He can’t get the image out of his head. He needs to ask.

“Edward, we—we didn’t ever get married, right?” He feels like a fool for even asking, but he wasn’t sure which recollections were memory and which were dreams.

“No, no we did not.” Edward laughs gently, and he’s struck by the thought that he’d like Edward to sound like that always. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, it was just a thought…”

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to cram in a heck of a lot of parallels. Please drop a comment if you enjoyed reading this. I accept a wide range, anything from meta-analysis essays to keyboard smashes.


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